


if at first you don't succeed (better luck next time)

by pseudoanalytics



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Awkward Blow Jobs, Failed Attempt at Sex, Hand & Finger Kink, Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship, equal opportunity clowning on both parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25258801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/pseuds/pseudoanalytics
Summary: "Have you even blown someone before?" Atsumu asks cautiously.Omi scoffs. "Obviously.""No. No,notobviously.""I've had sex, Miya."Atsumu was basically 60 percent certain this was the case, yet hearing it aloud still rocks his fundamental concept of Omi as a person."Like, alotof sex?"Omi doesn't dignify that with an answer.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 666





	if at first you don't succeed (better luck next time)

**Author's Note:**

> HEADSUP!
> 
> this story contains very mild spoilers for ch 401, by which i mean, if u dont know who wins Adlers v. MSBY, pls look away
> 
> SECOND HEADSUP!
> 
> this story also contains miya atsumu
> 
> ***
> 
> thank you grace for the short notice beta ;__; ily

The adrenaline, attention, and self-satisfaction Atsumu was riding high on have all dissipated by the time the team heads home. The wild night of celebration — alongside the Adlers, who were very good sports about the whole thing — had bled into the early morning, until even Coach Foster openly wondered why they'd bothered getting hotel rooms. 

The four-hour train ride back to Osaka seems especially hellish at 6 in the goddamn morning. As they wait on the platform, Shouyou sits dozing on his suitcase — a sleep mask propped uselessly on his forehead — because that's the kind of luxury being 172 centimeters grants you, even if the world of volleyball doesn't typically acknowledge it. Bokkun, the traitor, isn't riding back with the team. His plans for the day probably look a lot like sleeping in until noon and nursing a hangover with the company of one Akaashi Keiji. All in all, Atsumu thinks, that's a much better looking prospect than making the journey back to home base. Home gym. Home _sweat_ home, even.

He adjusts his neck pillow, figuring if he has to exert the energy to stand, he sure isn't going to waste any on keeping his head upright.

A full meter and a half away, Omi-kun's sagging body gives a spastic jerk as he jolts awake again. Poor guy practically had to be dragged off the court by Barnes yesterday. He got as far as post-match stretches before collapsing into a heap of rubbery limbs. That little show is the only reason Atsumu forgives him for still being tired. Omi then immediately spent the remainder of the night existing as a comatose figure in the corner of each bar the two teams visited. His exhaustion was obvious from the way he didn't wipe off a single table before resting his forehead on it to knock the fuck out. The couple of times Meian, and even Ushiwaka, had offered to take him back to the hotel only resulted in Omi waving them off a tad petulantly. Atsumu can't wait to rub that in his face over the next couple days.

The train pulls up with a screech of brakes, and everyone blearily piles on-board. Atsumu tries to sprint for a seat without also looking like he's sprinting for a seat. He probably fails at this endeavor.

Near the doors, Omi wedges his skyscraper body and both of his suitcases in between two meticulously wiped down poles, preparing himself to survive the entire trip standing up since that is apparently preferable to sitting on any of the perfectly cleanish surfaces provided for riders' comfort.

Shouyou drops down into the spot next to Atsumu, shoots him a sunny smile, then tugs on his once-forgotten mask to block out the lights and perhaps even the world. Not like a sleeping mask would do Atsumu any good. Even asleep, Shouyou's mouth is curved in a perpetual grin, and the occasional shake of the moving train drops his jaw enough to let out a flash of teeth. Hinata Shouyou: the man whose smile could light the darkest of caves. He'd make a great— What were those cave explorers called again? Samu had watched a whole documentary on them one time. But it was less of a documentary and more of a precautionary tale against ever visiting caves, and even though Atsumu has never been one to fight bouts of claustrophobia, he'd found himself unable to watch some of the footage of people wriggling through tiny crevices they definitely should not have been wriggling through.

Atsumu startles awake while saying, "Spelunkers!" at a volume that definitely meets the requirements for immediate expulsion from any library.

Inunaki's eyes are wide as he freezes in place at the shout. His hand is still warm on Atsumu's shoulder, where, presumably, he'd been shaking him a millisecond prior. Atsumu's other shoulder is also warm, but this time it's because Shouyou has ended up slumped against his side. Shouyou's trademark radiant grin has vanished in favor of him drooling halfway to Atsumu's elbow. Great.

"Shut yer trap," Atsumu slurs at the amused eyebrow arching on Omi's forehead. His accent feels twice as thick in his mouth right now, and with his voice this deep and croaky, he almost sounds like his brother.

"We're the next stop. Get ready," Meian says with a nice rasp of his own. He's either oblivious to the difficulties of awakening his teammates or, more likely, he's practicing self-preservation and acting like he doesn't care. That must be nice, Atsumu thinks, considering _he_ gets to enjoy the unique sensation of tugging out arm hair just by adjusting his dried-slobber sleeve.

The train slows again. The doors open. The MSBY Black Jackals make it back to solid ground again without incident, unless of course you count Adriah failing to mind the gap and nearly tripping out of the car.

The team bus is actually there to pick them up too. As Atsumu has never learned to drive, he has never really entertained sexual or even romantic thoughts concerning vehicles, but as he chucks his duffle bag into the overhead storage and sprawls across his designated row of seats, he thinks he might understand the people who do.

Across the aisle, Omi sinks into his own space with a little sigh of relief. Atsumu has no fucking pity for him.

"You coulda sat down at least once on the train," he drawls. "Put down a towel. Wipe off the armrests..." Mmm… This is the life. The bus feels more comfortable than a bed right now. Shouyou is amazing, but nothing beats stretching out your sore limbs and taking a warm nap.

"I can't stand the idea of who or what might have sat there first."

Ah. That's right. He'd spoken to Omi. Atsumu cranes his neck up so he can see the little pinch that settles right between Omi's brows. Somehow the guy got a reputation for an amazing poker face, which is total bullshit considering how damn expressive he is all the time. Just because the guy only feels and emotes disgust doesn't mean he's unreadable.

Atsumu hums and adjusts his neck pillow, already feeling the urge to resort to nonverbal communication. "Next time just sit on my lap then," he mumbles. The fastest way to shut Omi up is to disgust him into no longer bothering to give you the time of day.

"Careful, I just might take you up on that."

And immediately Atsumu's head spins like a top; the vestiges of sleep go flying off of it as it whirls. He struggles onto his elbows to clarify, but Omi's huge fuck-off-and-die noise-cancelling headphones are on, and there's no way Atsumu can get his attention without inadvertently alerting the rest of the team — especially Adriah, who is a huge gossip and likes to eavesdrop under the premise of "learning the language" or some shit.

Consequently, Atsumu doesn't sleep a wink the whole way home, and to add insult to injury, Omi — a lucky man gifted with the ability to wake up exactly upon arrival and who therefore does not need to be shaken to consciousness by well-meaning teammates — spares him a single glance before saying, "I thought you were tired."

Atsumu flips him off with both hands as he rubs his aching eyes with the heels of his palms.

Making it back to their team complex has its pros and cons of course. The pros mostly consist of a flushable toilet, a shower, a change of clothes, an actual bed, and a set of blackout curtains — in that order. The singular con is a frustrating wing spiker named Sakusa Kiyoomi, who, despite the wishes of both occupants, shares a room with Atsumu.

These accommodations came about when Shouyou first joined the team, and in their joint hubris, Atsumu had seen a chance to kick Bokkun out and Omi had seen the opportunity to avoid rooming with the new guy, whose cleanliness habits had yet to be ascertained. Neither of them had fully considered the consequences, and thus they are both forced to live in a precarious balance where either one could snap at any time and create a new opening on the team.

Atsumu grabs his duffle and fumbles his card key, already too aware that his grandiose dream of showering off travel funk and Shouyou-saliva will be abandoned in lieu of swiping a pack of Omi's baby wipes instead. Taking a piss? That one isn't optional, but fortunately it's fast and therefore will not have a significant impact on his one-man plan to pass out until morning. He swings through the team bathroom at lightspeed, uses the urinal without even setting his bag down, and dries his hands on the upper thighs of his sweats as he readjusts himself during his waddle back to his room. Then it's as simple as kicking his shoes off at the door and turning the handle with his elbow. It's already unlocked because Omi's freakishly long legs have allowed him to practically teleport here in the time it took Atsumu to whip out his dick and give it a little shake.

"Can I getta wipe?" Atsumu asks his unamused roommate as he drops his luggage on the side of the room that's been nebulously defined as his own. "Arm's sticky."

"So I saw." Omi flicks a single wipe across the room like he's actually a champion discus hurler and not the poltergeist who haunts Atsumu's living space.

 _Could be Samu,_ Atsumu reminds himself. _You could be livin' with Samu still._ Except that doesn't really check out, because the only downsides to rooming with his brother include getting shit-talked and not being able to get laid. And by living with Omi, Atsumu _still_ gets shit-talked and he's _still_ not getting laid. Plus, as an added bonus, he now gets uncomfortable sexual tension with one of the few hot guys in Japan that he isn't supposed to put out for.

Atsumu has a personal rule against shitting where he eats, and if that means he managed to keep his infatuation with Shouyou under control then he certainly isn't going to crack for an antisocial asshole who would never agree to fuck him in the first place. He doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about his teammates' sexual exploits beyond _can they shut up over there?_ or _there's no way they gotta be that loud._ But he does have to admit he wonders about Omi. Omi seems like the kind of guy who either gets away with constant, kinky sex in near secrecy or who has never had a sexual thought in his life and never plans to.

With considerably less flair, Atsumu balls up the used wipe and tosses it perfectly into the trash can. He chooses not to put a new shirt on and just clambers onto the top bunk with some effort. Damn. Years of him whining that Samu always got the top bunk, and now what? Now he understands the pain of having your bed be a mountain climb away.

Once he's finally settled, he waits for the click of the door to signal Omi's departure for the shower. Then Atsumu lets out a long, soul-cleansing groan and curls into the comfort of his pillow and bedsheets.

He falls asleep to the glow of the afternoon sun, but he wakes up to relative darkness, which could mean it's nighttime or could mean the curtains are just closed. The _relative_ part means Omi's on his computer and is therefore flooding the small room with light pollution from whatever game he's into right now. There's no frustrated mumbling, so he isn't using his mic. Small victories.

Part of Atsumu wants to just roll over and go back to sleep, but he's also hungry as fuck and maybe a little dehydrated too. He runs his tongue across his lips and finds them a similar texture to that of a heavily layered acrylic painting. He's never licked an acrylic painting before — heavily layered or otherwise — but it's still the first thing that springs into his mind.

"Hey," he says loudly, leaning his torso over the side of his bed and not at all enjoying the twitch and little _shit!_ Omi gives at the reminder of another living being in the room. "What time 's it?"

Omi squints at the wall clock, but it's too dark to read. Instead, his right hand darts off the controller to double tap his phone screen, returning so quickly that his character doesn't so much as pause. "Just past 2."

"In the mornin'?"

"Yes. That's how 24-hour time works."

Atsumu's urge to eat starts to fade. He might as well suck it up and wait for breakfast. "Didja sleep at all?" he asks, for no real reason except maybe to distract Omi.

"Yes. I showered and slept until midnight."

"You'll throw off your cicada-ian rhythms like that, Omi-kun."

"It's pronounced _circadian_ , and that isn't my name."

It's well-practiced banter at this point. Venomless.

Atsumu hauls himself back onto his bed, core muscles aching, and allows himself a few minutes to watch Omi's character take out an impressive array of were-crow looking things. He rests his chin in his hands and listens to the clicking of Omi's controller.

He must doze off because when he opens his eyes again, Omi is within spitting distance, though Atsumu would never test that unit of measure for fear of being evicted from the team complex altogether.

"Fuck," Atsumu breathes as his heart pounds unevenly in his chest.

"You can't sleep like that," Omi says crossly. "It's bad for your wrists."

"I'll sleep however I'm comfortable." Not that this _is_ a particularly great way to lay. He can't feel his fingers. His hands might have fallen asleep before he did.

Or maybe he's _still_ out cold — possibly back on the train or even in that last izakaya — because Omi's creepy spider hands come up and interlace fingers with Atsumu's own. No gloves. Just skin on skin. His palms are numb. He can hardly even feel it.

Omi carefully guides Atsumu's hands out in front of him until they're dangling over the edge of the bed and he has to rest his chin on his pillow instead. It's like something out of Atsumu's wildest dreams. A hallucination. Omi's fingers are squeezing and as the blood recirculates, Atsumu can actually kinda feel him—

"Fuck! _Shit!_ " Atsumu yelps as sensation returns all at once. Omi's mouth is stretched wide and flat, and his eyes are gleaming with something borderline feral as he continues massaging Atsumu's hands. For his part, Atsumu can't get enough leverage in his belly-down state, and his arms lack the strength to pull back from the pins and needles he's sure are being driven into his palms.

When Omi finally tires of his squawking, he lets him go and leaves Atsumu to writhe in agony as he calmly uses a single pump of hand sanitizer from his desk. "Like I said. That's bad for your wrists."

"Eat shit," Atsumu moans, in a manner which is definitely coherent and not at all pathetic. "If I can never set again, it's your fault."

"Mm. I'd say it's actually _yours_ for sleeping like that in the first place."

Atsumu wheezes out another not-whine and tries to peek at the clock again. Can he eat breakfast yet? Usually breakfast starts at 6 o'clock sharp, but surely as long as it's within an hour of that he can get away with a snack. "What time is it now?"

"Check your phone," Omi says waspishly, even as he checks his own. Then he adds, "It's a quarter to 3," because Omi is the kind of guy who says shit like _a quarter to 3_ when he could just say _2:45_.

Unbelievable. Only a half an hour's gone by? He'll starve. "Can't. Phone's still in my bag. So unless y'wanna open my shit and pass it up here, I'm gonna keep askin' you."

Omi's face crinkles as he clearly considers how many times Atsumu will need to know the time versus how many times he'll actually ask, just to be annoying. "Where in your bag." The words come out flat. Inflectionless. It's barely a question.

"Side pocket," answers Atsumu. He's thrown back to all the times Samu tried to get him to grab something because he was already up on his bunk. It's like the top bunk has some sort of gravitational field that traps the inhabitant and makes it impossible to get back down for anything less than a structural fire or the smell of food cooking.

There's a long pause and then the sound of a pocket slowly unzipping. Omi must gently poke around in the abyss that is the most easily accessible storage compartment on Atsumu's bag, probably unamused by the variety of cough drop wrappers, used KT tape, and— _uh oh_.

"These are expired," Omi says dryly, and Atsumu's life flashes before his eyes at the idea of Omi finding his only box of condoms. The embarrassment comes less from the possibility of them being past expiration and more from the fact that he's only used one since he bought them.

"I can explain—" Atsumu starts, but when he sits up, he sees Omi squatting beside his bag — aforementioned wrappers scattered near his feet — holding up a bottle of eyedrops between two pinched fingers. Omi-kun, Atsumu thinks, has mastered the art of the condescending pinch. Samu would be jealous.

Sometimes when Samu is standing a decent distance away, he'll hold up his hand, shut one eye, and pretend to squeeze Atsumu's head like a grape. This never fails to make Atsumu feel mild rage and maybe even a little brotherly affection — two emotions that are frequently just one in the same. But when Omi picks things up in his one-pincer-shy-of-a-claw-machine grip, Atsumu feels like he's evaporating off the pavement in the heat of summer. It's not even a fathomable emotion; it's a state of being.

"Oh," he says eloquently. "Toss 'em then." And because Omi isn't in possession of half as many brain cells as he likes to act like he is, he chucks the little bottle up to Atsumu before resuming his search.

"How do you find anything in here?" asks Omi as he starts plucking trash out to help him see inside the hellscape Atsumu calls a duffle bag. The box of condoms is unearthed as Atsumu watches, but Omi doesn't spare it a second glance, too enthralled with his mission to locate Atsumu's phone. Omi _does_ pause as he pulls out a tube of toothpaste. The end is flattened and curled like all nearly-empty tubes come to be, but this particular one is conspicuously missing its lid.

Said lid is discovered about six seconds later, encrusted to another cough drop wrapper and a bandage that is unopened but clearly unusable. 

"Okay. Okay, I'm done," Omi announces as he stands back up. There's a vein ticking on his forehead, and he squeezes and releases his fingers like he can feel the tacky cling of toothpaste on them. He probably can.

With some difficulty, Omi wrestles the door open with his elbow and knee, clearly heading for the bathroom. There's a palpable dark cloud following him down the hall. Hopefully no one else is awake to see.

Atsumu decides not to leave his condoms in plain view any longer, and he stumbles down the side of the bed to gather everything. A tissue helps him pick up the toothpaste without contracting a similar mess on his own hands. Then he just has to grab handfuls of trash and shove them into the bin as fast as he can. A quick peek inside the main compartment of his bag reveals that his phone was right inside the whole time, but that's guilt Atsumu can deal with later, after he's done slam-dunking the rather worse-for-wear box of condoms into his sock drawer and getting the hell back in bed.

When Omi reenters the room, he doesn't even look pleased that Atsumu has cleaned up.

To prompt him, Atsumu says, "Found my phone," and wiggles it in the air as proof.

Omi just scoots the cursed duffle with his foot until it hits the wall on the-side-sorta-known-as-Atsumu's. He returns to his computer and folds his limbs into his chair like a contortionist prepping for an act.

Atsumu rolls his eyes, assuming the conversation is over. He unlocks his phone and begins the arduous task of swiping away drunk Shouyou and Inunaki notifications from the night before. Omi starts clicking his controller again, albeit at a slower speed and intensity than before.

Maybe it's from the blue light of his phone or maybe it's from the whole bag quest incident, but Atsumu finds he's no longer sleepy — just lethargic and very, very hungry. He needs a distraction.

"Whatcha playin'?" he asks the room at large.

"Nothing," comes the verbose response.

Atsumu rolls over to call bullshit, except Omi really _isn't_ playing anything. He's just flicking through his PS4 games on a loop like something new and enticing might show up this time around. Predictably, nothing does, and Omi lets the controller clatter out of his hand and onto the desk with a soft sigh. He rolls his wrists and allows the motion to glide up through his shoulders and neck.

Omi's shoulders are broad; Atsumu has known this objectively for a while. But for some reason, right now, Omi looks especially huge. Maybe it's the way his curled form blocks the glow of his computer monitor from fanning out through the rest of the room. It's interesting to stare at: the sharp angle that the light cuts off at. Omi must feel Atsumu staring because he glances up, already looking peeved. Prepared to be peeved. Pre-peeved. Peeved in prep-peeved-ration.

Now Omi's mouth cracks open a hair. Now it shuts again. Now Omi runs a hand through his hair, only making it a couple centimeters before the curls stop his combing fingers. He holds his hair out of the way like that — head tilted at an angle — and his mouth reopens, this time with conviction.

"Were your condoms expired too?"

Atsumu doesn't immediately reply. He's a little too busy trying to parse this strange question, especially in a universe where Sakusa Kiyoomi has flirted back with service ace competitions, threatened to sit on Atsumu's lap, and kinda held his hands even if it _was_ with the intent to cause pain.

Carefully — so carefully that he feels like he's speaking in slow motion — Atsumu admits, "I dunno."

Omi nods in a way that clearly says _I see_.

"Why're y'askin'?" Atsumu slurs.

"It's 3 in the morning."

Nothing makes sense again. Except it does. He just doesn't dare hope it's what he thinks. "Well, wouldja look at that. It sure is."

Omi drops his hand from his hair in exasperation, leaving his curls ruffled. "Stop being deliberately obtuse. I'm offering to," here he pauses, looking a bit like he's just eaten an entire wasps' nest, "suck you off."

This is not the question he's expecting. There's a million reasons Atsumu wants to say yes. There's a million reasons why he should say no.

He settles for, "I don't shit where I eat," before he adds, like some kind of idiot, "And what does that hafta do with it being 3 in the morning?"

Omi's eyebrows tilt up in a new expression that could be politely deemed as thoughtful. "Hmm. Commendable reasoning. I respect your decision." Then he turns back to his computer like he really believes Atsumu can easily move on from being propositioned by his roommate-cum-teammate. This line of thought just makes Atsumu think harder about the term _cum_ and all of its implications.

"What if—" Atsumu says, before he realizes he has no idea what words he expected to follow that opener.

"I'm not going to break your one decent life philosophy." Omi glances back up at him without any traces of embarrassment or rejection on his face.

Atsumu almost wishes there were some. "Have you even blown someone before?" he asks.

"Obviously."

"No. No, _not_ obviously."

"I've had sex, Miya."

Atsumu was basically 60 percent certain this was the case, yet hearing it aloud still rocks his fundamental concept of Omi as a person.

"Like, a _lot_ of sex?"

Omi doesn't dignify that with an answer. "If you're going to change your mind, you have thirty seconds. Otherwise, we're going with the smarter, more logical option and returning to what we were each doing before this conversation."

"Why with _me?_ "

This time Omi does not set his controller down gently at all. In fact, he practically throws it. "Because you seemed like you possessed basic sexual competence, you're readily available, I thought you were flirting with me, and… and we just won against the Adlers."

There's a lot to unpack here, so Atsumu goes with: "Winnin' games gets you worked up?"

"Good games do."

Once again, Atsumu is left to helplessly wrestle with taking an Omi who finds volleyball matches _arousing_ and making that fit in line with his previous perception of the guy.

"But then again," Omi continues, heedless of the true nature of Atsumu's internal conflict, "if you told yourself you wouldn't get involved with teammates, then you should stick to that promise."

Actually, Atsumu has decided as of right now that said "promise" was a stupid, arbitrary rule made to discourage but not totally ban inter-team shenanigans.

"Seein' things through to the end is more your gig, Omi-kun."

Omi gets up from his chair and walks to the bed. He's tall enough to be looking Atsumu in the eye even though he's still lying on the top bunk. Omi climbs a single step up the side ladder so that he has the height advantage back. "And what's _your_ 'gig,' Miya?"

"I see what I want, and I get it."

"Oh?" Omi asks. If anyone else was speaking, Atsumu would have described their voice as snide. But since it's Sakusa Kiyoomi, he thinks of it as insufferably smug instead. This smugness lasts only a matter of seconds because as Omi tries to climb up onto Atsumu's bunk, he manages to hit his head on the ceiling — an act Atsumu has also perfected to a near science and thus has complete empathy for.

He tugs Omi up onto the bed, clutching at shaking hands as they clutch in turn at the back of Omi's head.

"Aww," Atsumu manages through his barely stifled laughter. "Is Omi-Omi cryin'?"

He gets a gritted, " _fuck_ _you_ ," for his efforts, even though he understands the unique way a ceiling can knock tears out that typical pain can't compete with.

Omi lies down on his back, still cradling his head, so Atsumu takes his cue to swing a leg over to straddle him. He reaches up to gauge where the ceiling is so he can slowly straighten his spine without knocking himself silly too. Atsumu rolls his hips once and revels in the fact that neither of them are the least bit hard right now. And yet he's into it.

"Nothin' wrong with startin' from scratch," he snorts before leaning down to kiss Omi. He stops just before contact, suddenly unsure of what is and isn't allowed.

Omi quirks an eyebrow at the pause. "You can kiss me," he says. "Just don't—"

"—touch me," Atsumu finishes.

"What?"

"You were gonna tell me not to touch ya, right?"

Omi looks at him like he's just announced he's quitting volleyball. "Miya, what are you talking about?"

"You—"

"Why would I tell you not to touch me? Isn't that the point of all this?" 

Atsumu can't think of an appropriately shitty way to reply, so he moves past the faux pax by bending down to kiss Omi instead. Omi's lips are kinda stiff — not unlike a small beak — so Atsumu does his best to lead the kiss into something approaching mildly pleasurable. _Very mildly_ pleasurable.

"How long've ya wanted to do this?" Atsumu asks at the same time that Omi says, "Your lips are chapped."

They pause, breathing each other's air and hovering too close to really look one another in the eye.

Atsumu doesn't expect Omi to answer, but he does.

"Since second-year," he says.

"Second— Like, _high school?_ "

Omi's eyes narrow. "Yes."

This is a game changer, more so than when Shouyou subbed in for Barnes at the last match. "You've wanted to… y'know… _me,_ since _high school._ "

"Just _kiss,_ you idiot," Omi hisses. "Don't be weird."

"Y'wanted to kiss high school me? With that hair?"

"I'll have you know I've considered this wish to be a glaring character flaw on my part."

Atsumu just stares down at him. He can't string together any thoughts other than _Omi-kun wanted to kiss me at the Y-19 training camp,_ so it's pointless to even try.

"Hey. _Miya_." Omi's irritation implies this is not the first time he's said this. "You better lose your pants before I change my mind."

"Yeah," Atsumu says, nodding like a bobblehead. "I better."

It's not until Omi wriggles Atsumu's sweatpants down to his ankles that they both realize what they've forgotten.

"Shit," Atsumu breathes. "My condoms." He then proceeds _not_ to have a mental breakdown over the humiliation of calling them _his_ condoms. _The_ condoms would have been better. There's something about them that makes declaring ownership seem downright shameful.

The expression on Omi's face screams _retail worker being asked to call a manager,_ but he still pushes Atsumu off, rolls over onto his stomach, and wriggles backward to the foot of the bunk to awkwardly climb down. "If these end up being expired, I'm just going to bed."

Atsumu busies himself with reclining on his back and propping his pillow to comfortably cradle his head. After a moment of debate, he kicks his sweats off too. He's an all-or-nothing kind of guy, and he's willing to bet it all on these condoms being usable.

"Hmm," Omi hums from the direction of Atsumu's sock drawer, which is creepy, because Omi wasn't even here when he relocated them.

"How bad is it, doc?"

"You have two more months to finish them."

Atsumu waggles his eyebrows even though Omi can't see him. "Well, 'tween you and me, we can get through 'em twice as fast."

The bed shakes a bit as Omi climbs back up. This time, he's very cautious about his proximity to the ceiling. Doesn't matter. Atsumu already knows: eventually you will forget the pain of the last head bonk, and it will inevitably happen again.

"Sure ya wanna do it up here?" Atsumu asks as an attempt at courtesy.

"We aren’t doing this in _my_ bed," Omi says as he rolls his eyes and situates himself between Atsumu's thighs. Atsumu spreads them a little wider, both for his own comfort and to hopefully entice Omi into getting to work.

Omi is _more_ than attractive. Atsumu has probably been aware of this for as long as Omi has apparently wanted _him,_ but it's extra obvious now. The light from the computer monitor catches in Omi's eyes and grants a pop of color to the dark slivers of iris still visible beneath his half-closed lids. A stray curl is caught in his lashes, and Atsumu has to reach out to free it.

While his hand is still there, Atsumu lets his thumb glide gently down the sharp peak of Omi's nose until his fingertips come to rest on Omi's lips. Atsumu doesn't push; he doesn't force. He just waits long enough that Omi's jaw drops a tick and he can slide two of his fingers right on in. Atsumu's knuckles bump against sharp teeth, and he hopes that isn't an indication of the blowjob that lies ahead. But then that slippery, nimble tongue curls around Atsumu's fingers and he doesn't care anymore. He eases them in and out, never going far enough back to choke. Omi's eyes close all the way, and he huffs air out through his nose in a manner that doesn't sound frustrated for once.

Atsumu waits until there's saliva making its way past the webbing of his fingers to reach his palm. Then he pulls his hand free and trails both his index and middle down Omi's lower lip and face, spreading the wetness like drool so that it strings to connect Atsumu's fingers to the tip of Omi's chin.

"Nice," he says nonsensically, tilting Omi's jaw from side to side to survey his work, spit glinting in the light.

Omi probably doesn't enjoy being looked at so closely. Or maybe he's just impatient and ready to begin. Either way, he gets a hand on each leg of Atsumu's boxers and manages to wiggle them down with surprisingly little difficulty, especially considering the way his elbows are supporting most of his upper body weight.

He doesn't watch the enticing way Atsumu's cock bounces up against his abs, but Atsumu is willing to forgive him, because in the next instant, Omi is ripping open a condom, rolling it down to the base of said cock, and swallowing Atsumu down in one fluid movement.

Atsumu's brain wipes and his entire consciousness is replaced with a single word.

And that word is _teeth._

"Teeth!" Atsumu yelps. " _Teeth_ , Omi! Teeth, teeth, _teeth!_ "

Atsumu uses one hand to grab Omi by his hair and pull him off. Then he immediately cradles his dick with the other hand to assess the lasting damage. Beyond the lingering tingle of primal fear burrowing into the base of his skull, there doesn't seem to be any. There aren't even any tears in the condom. Atsumu takes a moment to thank any and all gods for small mercies granted to attractive setters with plenty of life left to live, and also to mentally berate himself for previewing the course with his fingers and foolishly thinking _nothing_ of the way Omi's incisors had skimmed his knuckles on the way in.

Omi is unfairly hot — it's true. But it's also becoming clear that Omi is _so_ hot that he's been able to carry himself through sexual encounters based on that fact alone. It sounds completely ridiculous, yet even now, when Atsumu has just become intimately acquainted with the bear trap Omi calls a mouth, he's — perhaps stupidly — willing to try again, strictly because of the way Omi looks like this, with his jaw hanging open and the weight of his head suspended from Atsumu's grip in his hair.

"Lips over the teeth this time, Omi. That's it. Take it slow." Atsumu carefully feeds his cock back in, trying not to listen to the little voice in his head that's singing _fool me twice, shame on me._ When he doesn't suffer any immediate lacerations, he starts to relax a little. Now the fear seems less like a deterrent and more of a thrill. Atsumu lets his hips buck up for a split second, and Omi actually groans around him, even though he also leans on Atsumu's pelvis to keep it from happening again.

There's a hint of teeth again, but it feels intentional — an assumption confirmed by the way Omi's eyes crack open to glare at Atsumu. The heat of his expression is somewhat diluted by the way water is swimming on his lower lids. Braining him on the ceiling or choking him on a dick are apparently both good ways to make Omi tear up. Atsumu uses his thumbs to wipe Omi's eyes and nearly gets chomped in two when he accidentally just pokes the left one.

Omi pulls off and works his jaw for a second. "I need a break," he snaps, rubbing the affronted eye with the back of his wrist.

"How can I take care of ya?" Atsumu asks. After all, sex _is_ about fair turnabout or equal play or whatever.

Omi's response is to slither up alongside him until he can slip his own fingers into Atsumu's mouth.

If Atsumu had ever fantasized about actually fucking Omi — and that is a very, very big _if_ — he might have had a couple passing thoughts about developing a medical kink, thinking specifically about Omi's fondness for facemasks, nitrile gloves, and all things anti-bacterial. And indeed in this moment, Atsumu finds himself intensely remembering many a doctor's visit — namely the part of the check-up where someone comes at him with a tongue depressor and he ends up choking on it before it's three centimeters into his mouth.

Consequently, Atsumu immediately chokes on the first two knuckles of Omi's fingers. It's not a sexy choke. It's the kind of choke that features an airy burp-gag as prominently as an A-lister in a summer blockbuster, and only through sheer willpower is Atsumu able to keep himself from accidentally summoning the Ghosts of Stomach Bile Past, Present, and Future.

Omi's hand is gone before Atsumu even finishes his burp.

"Stop," Omi says. His voice cracks at the end of the word. "I'm done." His apparent hard limit is the threat of vomiting.

"Me too," Atsumu wheezes. Believe it or not, he _does_ know when to call it quits. "What time 's it?"

Omi twitches like he's tempted to strangle him once and for all. Atsumu isn't sure if it's because of his question or because he's removed his still-empty condom and shoved it under his pillow. Atsumu uses his toes to grab his sweats and pull them high enough that he can put them on.

"4:30."

"No way."

Omi flashes Atsumu's own phone screen at him to show him the time. The backlight finally dims, and they lie there in silence for a moment, just looking at each other.

Atsumu shifts uncomfortably. There's something digging into the base of his spine. He rifles through the tangled mess of sheets and finds the bottle of expired eye drops that Omi had chucked at him earlier. "Y'gotta be kiddin' me," he mumbles as he lazily lobs it in the general direction of the trash can.

There's a familiar metallic clank.

Atsumu goes stiff as a board. "Holy shit."

"No way," scoffs Omi, even though he's propping himself up to look too.

They both bend this way and that to inspect the floor, but the bottle is nowhere to be seen.

"I think it went in," Atsumu says, trying not to sound too shocked.

"I hate you."

"I'm… I'm the fuckin' best. Holy shit. Holy shit."

"That was _luck._ "

"Nah, it was _muscle memory._ "

"Oh, so now you're bragging about being too lazy to do things properly?"

Atsumu is high on his newfound slam dunk, nothing-but-trash-bag endorphins, and even an insult can't ruin his mood now. "I just did _you_ properly."

"Actually, you really didn't." Omi doesn't mention his own obvious shortcomings. That's fine. Omi is of course Omi's harshest critic, and for once Atsumu knows not to jab at certain areas unprovoked.

"We'll practice," he says instead, instinctively holding up a fist. "How long've we got again?"

Omi snorts, and it's an actual laugh this time. "Two months to finish the box." And then — to Atsumu's absolute surprise — Omi's fist reaches over and bumps his back.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the least explicit e fic i could have possibly written, but sometimes wips from april knock on your door and you have to expose sakuatsu as the fumbling idiots you know they can be
> 
> also, nothing brings ppl together like bonding over failed sex. its a proven science
> 
> ***
> 
> (come bully me on twitter [@newttxt](https://twitter.com/newttxt) though it's mostly monochromatic art central over there)


End file.
